


skipping stones

by meridies



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Family Dynamics, Found Family, Friendship, Gen, Lighthouses, Summer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-16 01:48:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29324238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meridies/pseuds/meridies
Summary: Two weeks into summer vacation, Tommy discovers a kid living on the top of an abandoned lighthouse. His name is Wilbur, he says, andno,he doesn't want to be friends.or, Tommy drags a runaway into his family, piece by piece, and doesn't stop until he's acquired a second brother.
Relationships: Technoblade & TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Wilbur Soot & Phil Watson, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Comments: 58
Kudos: 782





	skipping stones

**Author's Note:**

> not sure what this is, other than i'm losing my mind working on my other wips and needed something to break the monotony. this happened + i think it's a good practice in sensory description. enjoy!

Point Loma was the smallest town on the coast of California and was nearly in the middle of nowhere. 

Naturally, in Tommy’s all-important opinion, it was one of the dullest places on earth. 

He knew every piece of it like the back of his hand, after all; knew the streets and the stop sign, dented from when he and Techno had run into it while teaching themselves how to drive; knew the two-mile stretch of white sand along the coast, leading to a rusty lighthouse; knew the doughnut shop that had banned Tommy from ever entering again; knew the burger place that memorized their family’s orders, had their number on speed dial; knew the cul-de-sac that sloped upwards where Tommy had learned to skate. There was more, but it was pointless to list; Tommy already knew it. 

One might have said that he knew  _ everything _ . And for a thirteen year old on the brink of independence, that might have been correct.

Tommy had taken his shoes off at the shore and left them by the muddy path sloping towards the beach. Bunches of greenish-red succulents had exploded in growth by the seaside and left Tommy’s fingers sticky when he broke them apart on his nail. They were spattered all the way along the beach, along with yellow-petaled flowers and purple stalks of heather. 

The waves were gentle by the shore, and the world smelled of sea salt and that pale, sour scent that came with too much time out in the sun. Still, Tommy didn’t feel like turning back. He was headed towards the lighthouse, which was where Tommy spent most of his summer days— when he wasn’t locked up in school, slogging his way through the thick sloth that was summer school. He had failed beginner’s algebra for the second time, and while the first was excusable, the second was a pattern. Most of Tommy’s weekdays were spent under the instruction of a local teacher, attempting to explain the intricacies of equations. Tommy didn’t understand a lick of it; Techno, his older brother, had offered to help him, but Tommy waved him away.

Tommy glanced down and caught sight of his arms. It was only the first two weeks of summer vacation and already, freckles had splattered themselves across all areas where the sun touched his skin. Techno made fun of him for it and last year, Tommy nearly got kicked out of the local drugstore for shoplifting a tube of concealer. The concealer hadn’t worked, regardless; so every summer Tommy resigned himself to becoming a freckled thing of nature, sunburnt and vivacious. 

Tommy continued his walk. The lighthouse was always quiet and no one searched there ever; it was an abandoned space where teenagers went to party and where kids went to play. Tommy enjoyed being there; it was quiet and cool, shaded from the sweltering sun, looking out over the vast blue sea.

Tommy paused at the base. The building itself was painted white, stretching high overhead until it scraped the sky. The metal was cool on Tommy’s bare feet and there was already sand tracked in, like someone had been there before him. 

And, to his absolute shock, it was true. 

There had been someone there before him.

In fact, there was someone in there right now— in the lighthouse with him. 

This was new. And astonishing. Tommy blinked and swallowed hard. They were upstairs, in the area Tommy had never ventured (spiders and cobwebs and rust abound), and they were singing something. The walls of the lighthouse were thin enough that the sound reverberated down, and Tommy could nearly make out the clear lyrics. The person singing them was quiet, melodic, a voice that Tommy didn’t recognize— and he knew everyone in Point Loma backwards and front, could count them off on his fingers.

Curious, Tommy stepped up once on the railing. The ladder held firm beneath him. His grip held firm, too; and Tommy clambered up again. The humming didn’t falter. 

“Hello?” he risked calling.

The voice abruptly stilled.

“Hello?” the boy— it surely sounded like a boy— called back, uncertain, thready. “Is there someone here?”

Tommy took another step up, driven forwards by curiosity: “It’s just me!” Everyone knew his voice, after all, in the same way that Tommy knew every part of Point Loma. 

But he didn’t know this— the upper floor, where Tommy had never stepped before, and he found that there was someone there. Someone Tommy didn’t know. 

The kid, pale and thin and with limbs longer than the cellar spider currently taking residence beneath Tommy’s loft bed, jerked his head towards him. Painted across his face was the wide-eyed expression of shock.

“Who are  _ you?”  _ the kid glared. He backed away. 

“I’m Tommy,” Tommy introduced, “Everyone knows me.” It was true. Everyone did know him. 

“Tommy,” the kid said, testing out his name, “D’you mind going away?” 

“Yes,” Tommy said. “This is my lighthouse.” 

“Clearly not!” 

“Well, it would be if you weren’t here!” 

“I got here first!” the kid snapped, irritated. 

“Well—” Tommy paused. “What did you say your name was?”

The kid paused too, and this time Tommy got a good look at him. He was scrawny and had dark hair growing out over his forehead. He looked as if someone had left him in the stretcher for too long as a baby and now he had turned out too lanky for the rest of the world; his hands were white and his knuckles were scabbed over in shades of red; he looked like one strong breeze would blow him right over and even Tommy, who was not good at fighting, would have been able to trip him up. 

He was, honestly speaking, very pathetic. 

“I’m Wilbur,” he said defensively. “Why are you in my room?”

“Your— room?”

Tommy looked around. For the first time he realized that perhaps he had trespassed on someone’s room. Wilbur had a cozy little set up at the top of the lighthouse, consisting of one blanket, two books, and the dingiest pillow Tommy had ever seen. He had a pair of wire-rimmed glasses folded on top of what looked to be a guitar case. It was… very sad. It seemed lonely.

And yet there was a strange homey feeling to it, in that Tommy felt he was right in the center of one of the best places on earth. He had no idea who Wilbur was nor where the strange kid had come from but he did know that the top floor of the lighthouse now belonged to him; it was written into the walls. 

“I live here,” Wilbur said awkwardly, “So I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t mess anything up.” 

“I didn’t know people lived in lighthouses,” Tommy said. 

Another uncomfortable shift, and Wilbur ducked his head, “It’s not my first choice but I reckon it’s the best place I’ve got.” 

“Where were you living before?”

Wilbur glared. “None of your business.” 

Tommy’s curiosity took over, rampant and unbounded. Questions spilled. Here was someone who had never met Tommy before, hadn’t had the chance to be irritated by him, and by the looks of it, really needed a friend. Tommy was sure he would make a good friend.

“I want to know!” he began eagerly, “Why don’t you live there now? How long have you been here? Do you like it? I really like Point Loma, it’s small but I like it— have you been anywhere else beside the lighthouse? Down Main Street? Seen the skate park? The bookstore? The—”

“I don’t,” A slow pause, “I don’t have anywhere to go.”

A beat. Tommy’s thoughts slowed.

“Oh,” Tommy said, not knowing what else to say, “Why— not?” 

Wilbur wrapped one arm around his middle, pressed the other over one of the books, and gave the impression that he was wholly disinterested from talking with Tommy.

“I always wanted to live here,” Tommy continued, when it became clear Wilbur wouldn’t respond, “When I was a kid it was really nice, but my dad never let me climb up— it’s unstable, he said, and could fall, and he didn’t want me to get hurt.”

Wilbur looked around. “Hasn’t fallen yet.” Then he glared at Tommy, “It might, though, now that you’re up here too.”

“I’m just chatting,” Tommy huffed.

“I hate chatting.”

“I can go, then,” Tommy sighed, and slung one foot down the trapdoor.

Wilbur blanched, stuck a hand out, “Wait!”

Tommy paused.

“I mean—” Wilbur drew back just as suddenly, “If you wanted to stay— I haven’t talked to anyone in a while, so—” 

Desperation and loneliness worked like twins, winding through his tone. 

Tommy paused. Suspicious, one foot on the ladder, the other halfway down.

“I might,” he said, quite surely. “But you’d better be out of  _ my _ lighthouse when I come back tomorrow.”

* * *

Tommy sat at the dinner table, knees knocking together.

“How was your day?” Phil asked.

Tommy thought for a moment.

“It was fine,” he lied, “I’ve never been more bored.”

* * *

Wilbur had left the trapdoor open for him the next morning. Tommy clambered up the ladder; he entered Wilbur's hideout against his better judgement. 

“Oh,” Wilbur said. The scowl seemed to be permanently fixed on his face. “You’re back.”

“You  _ asked  _ me to come back,” Tommy frowned. 

“That doesn’t mean I wanted you to.” 

Tommy’s lip curled up and he leaned back against the wall. His head thudded. The sound rippled all the way down to the ground floor. 

After a moment, Wilbur glared, “Don’t you have anything better to do?” 

“No,” Tommy sighed mournfully, and rolled on his back, “I’d rather be here than at summer school.”

“ _ Summer  _ school?”

“Algebra. School told me I failed it twice.”

“You must not be very smart.”

Tommy sneered. “I’ll have you know I’m a genius, aren’t I? Biggest brain in the whole school.”

“Yeah?” Wilbur said. “Then—” He looked around for a scrap of paper and ended up scribbling something on the back cover of one of the books, “Solve that.”

_ 2x²–8x–24=0. _

Tommy looked at it. Then again, because it seemed indecipherable. He spelled it out in his head. 

“That’s…” A slow calculation, before huffing. “Hell if I know! I didn’t come here to be lectured.”

“It’s six,” Wilbur said, “Or negative two.”

“How is anyone supposed to know that?” 

Wilbur began scrawling something beside it, divisions and an equation that looked too complicated for any human to understand, “It’s the cross that I learned about— you have to figure out what multiplies to C but adds to B…” And Tommy stopped listening.

Wilbur’s voice was relaxing to listen to, he thought vaguely, the type of voice that would sing you a lullaby if you asked for it. He didn’t say anything of the sort to Wilbur. Tommy had no desire to be embarrassed. 

“It makes sense,” Wilbur said, sounding embarrassed. He pushed the wire-rimmed glasses higher on his nose. “It’s just…”

“Terrible,” Tommy sighed, “Absolutely horrific. One might even call it child torture.”

Wilbur’s face struggled to hold back a grin, and then a peal of laughter rang out, and he clamped a hand over his mouth, “It is not  _ child torture. _ ”

“It might as well be!” Tommy said crossly. “Summer school is barbaric— I couldn’t care less about Algebra or equations or six or negative two or—”

Wilbur had stopped paying attention to him, because Wilbur was laughing. Full bellied laughter.

Tommy scowled. “I’ve got the feeling you’re making fun of me.”

“I could explain it to you,” Wilbur said earnestly, “I’m good at math.”

“Hm.”

“Same in every language.”

Tommy had heard that argument a dozen times, a dozen different ways, and didn’t bother responding. He wouldn’t understand; that was fine by him.

Their conversation shifted, like the tides, and where they were once talking about math and Tommy’s inability to understand, now they were discussing the best places in all of Point Loma. Tommy was quite the expert; he had lived here for his entire life, after all. He privately thought that if there were a picture in the dictionary next to  _ monotonous,  _ it would be Point Loma. 

Wilbur had broken that. Never before had Tommy met someone completely, wholly new. 

“Let me show you around Main Street,” Tommy said, thinking out loud, and sprung to his feet, “We can get pizza together! Do you know the place? Slice of Life? Has a space themed mural on one of the walls?”

Wilbur blinked owlishly at him. Tommy thought for a moment, quite foolishly, that he was going to say no.

But Wilbur brightened, “Do they have ranch?”

Tommy’s nose curled. “If you’re into that, I guess.”

“Then let’s go,” Wilbur said, “I haven’t had pizza in— in  _ ages. _ ”

He was scrambling down the ladder of the lighthouse before Tommy moved towards it. Wilbur pulled on a pair of dingy sneakers, the soles peeling off the bottoms, and paused at the entrance.

“Tommy?” he called. “Are you coming or what?”

Tommy jolted out of stillness. He clambered down the ladder as well; glanced over critically at Wilbur’s outfit. 

“You know it’s June,” Tommy said.

“Oh,” Wilbur said, preoccupied, “So it is.”

He plucked at the sweater he was wearing, grey and chunky, and didn’t seem to care that it was the middle of summer and he was closer to a lobster being boiled alive than a properly-dressed teenager. 

They ended up sitting at a booth in the middle of the pizzeria, bracketed by a group of rowdy, riotous teenagers on one end and a quiet couple making out over a plate of parmesan breadsticks. Tommy threw his balled-up straw wrapper on them when he returned to Wilbur’s seat. 

“Well?” he asked, ice cubes swirling in his drink, “What do you think?”

“Good,” Wilbur proclaimed. “I like the olives.”

“That’s insane,” Tommy muttered, and set about eating the part of the pizza that wasn’t contaminated; his side was doused in the sweet, tangy acid of pineapple and pepperoni. Wilbur gave an exaggerated tirade about the morality of pineapple on pizza, but Tommy didn’t care. He thought it was delightful. 

“I haven’t had pizza in so long,” Wilbur muttered again, “This is good.” 

Tommy eyed him. “How long have you been in the lighthouse?”

“Two weeks,” Wilbur said.

“And…” Tommy paused. Two weeks was a strangely long time. “Have you been— eating enough? Taking care of yourself?”

Wilbur’s hand stilled when he reached for the next slice. Something churned uncomfortably in Tommy’s stomach. 

“I have,” Wilbur said, an obvious lie, “None of your business.”

The ice cubes melted in Tommy’s drink; the friend group behind them got up and left. After a while, Tommy dragged Wilbur from the restaurant, bellies (and hearts) full. He wanted to go back to the beach, where the waves were cool and the spray from the waves would cool them both down. 

Something caught his eye as he passed, though. 

“Enya!” Tommy said joyously. 

Wilbur frowned. “Enya?”

Tommy crouched down and held out his hand. From behind the dumpster, shabby and well-loved, crept a small cat. 

Wilbur, horrified, took a step back. “That thing has  _ fleas _ .”

“Enya is my friend,” Tommy cooed, “Aren’t you, Enya.”

Enya did not respond (for she couldn’t speak English) but she did rub along Tommy’s hand, lick his fingers free of pepperoni grease, and then twined towards Wilbur. Wilbur backed away unsteadily.

“I don’t like cats,” he gritted, “Can you— get it away from me?”

Enya meowed. Tommy scooped her up around her middle and deposited her back beside the dumpster. Wilbur still looked unhappy, but he wasn’t actively cringing up.

“Enya’s a sweetheart,” Tommy reassured, “And she doesn’t have fleas. I think.”

“She’s eating pizza from a dumpster!” 

That was a fair point. Enya was now scarfing down beef bits from a discarded pizza with little care for how uncivilized it made her look.

“Enya’s just snacking,” assured Tommy, “She’s not going to hurt you.” 

Wilbur looked suspicious, and edged around Enya, before following Tommy down the largest street of Point Loma. That wasn’t saying much— it was the only road in their entire town that had a white stripe down the center, dividing it into even halves for driving. 

It was this road that led directly back to the beach. Wilbur and Tommy followed it on their merry way toward the horizon. 

* * *

The weeks passed, zephyr-like and tactile, stretching like warm taffy between the long-limbed fingers of summer. Wilbur’s home in the lighthouse grew from a single, desolate room to still a single room, but one that now contained two pillows, plucked from the attic of Tommy’s home, a spare quilt, blank journals, red pens, a stash of snacks stored inside an old cabinet. 

In return Wilbur and Tommy sat with their legs dangling from the railing of the lighthouse and looked out towards the sea. Wilbur tried his best to explain how quadratic equations worked, how to calculate the variables. Tommy huffed in impatience, but he did his best to follow what Wilbur said.

And Tommy liked Wilbur; liked the stories that spilled out of him when the last days of June arrived, hot and sticky over the entirety of Point Loma; liked when Wilbur talked about neon gas station lights; the scratchy, stiff fabric of a Greyhound bus; the crunch of snow beneath his feet, the shift from autumn into winter. Tommy had never seen snow. 

“And you ended up here,” Tommy said wondrously, looking up at the stars, “What are the odds, huh?”

“What are the odds,” Wilbur echoed. 

* * *

A few nights later, the days had passed so slowly it felt like sap from the sweetgum trees was running down the sides of the town; everything was lucid, slow, summerlike. Tommy fumbled for the house key underneath the welcome mat and entered home; it was loud inside. Techno was playing music. 

“Where have you been all day?” he asked, when Tommy entered the kitchen. Techno himself had been learning how to drive with Phil. Then he had gone walking in the shrubbery around the northern coast, spending his precious summer vacation underneath the sun. 

“I was hanging out with my friend,” Tommy said brightly. “We went down to the movie theatre today.”

Techno cast a tired look to Phil, who mirrored it back, though Tommy knew nothing of the sort; his back was turned and he was flicking very quickly through the contents of the fridge, allowing the cold air to cool him down. 

“That’s nice,” Techno said politely, “I didn’t know you had friends.”

“ _ Techno _ ,” reprimanded Phil.

“I do have friends,” said Tommy sourly, “You’re just an asshole.”

“Really?” Techno said challengingly, “Then introduce me to them.” 

Belatedly Tommy realized that he had mentioned the existence of Wilbur. He was certain that he was the only person in the whole town who knew of Wilbur’s life in the lighthouse. Perhaps he shouldn’t have told Techno— and Phil, even if Phil wasn’t listening to the two of them. 

But this was Techno— Techno who had caught Tommy shoplifting movie theatre snacks underneath his shirt in third grade and took the blame, Techno who had written Tommy’s English essay for him in thirty minutes while Tommy was sleeping, exhausted on the couch, Techno who had sighed in disappointment but changed the channel from a history documentary to a bad, laughtrack-esque comedy when Tommy pleaded for him to do so. 

Surely Techno wouldn’t tell.

* * *

So Tommy said: “Come with me,” in the morning, just as the sun broke the horizon line, “I have to show you something.”

* * *

The pair crossed two sidewalks, one red light, through the early morning mist, left their shoes by the start of the sand, and Techno stuffed his hands into his pockets.

“It’s so early,” Techno sighed, “This better be something good.”

“It is,” Tommy declared, “I promise.”

“You’re skipping summer school,” Techno said warningly, “Does Phil know?”

Tommy winced. “Don’t worry about that.” Phil did not know, but Tommy was learning enough from Wilbur on his own. Wilbur was a much better tutor than the woman Tommy was forced to see— even if Wilbur was only sixteen. He had told Tommy his age a few days ago. 

They arrived at the base of the lighthouse. Tommy rapped twice. 

“This is Techno,” Tommy introduced brightly, when Wilbur’s head of curly hair poked through the trapdoor, “He’s my brother.”

Wilbur’s eyes widened. He spluttered, “ _ What?” _

Techno crossed his arms. He flicked a stern gaze up and down Wilbur.

“He’s alright, I suppose,” Techno said, “ _ This  _ is Wilbur?”

Wilbur spluttered some more: “You told him about me?”

“Well, he’s my brother, was I not supposed to?” 

“I thought—” Wilbur’s eyes flicked over him— “I thought you hadn’t told anyone.”

Techno frowned. “Tommy, how long have you known him?”

“Three weeks,” Tommy cheered, while at the same time Wilbur declared, “He doesn’t know me at all.” 

There was a pregnant pause. 

Tommy amended, “Well, we’re still very new friends.”

Wilbur nodded tersely. 

Out of him and Tommy, Techno always ran cold-blooded, analytical, precise with his thinking and rationale. Tommy was hot-heated and exuberant; Techno was usually there to hold him back when he became too impulsive.

After a moment, Techno asked, “Doesn’t it get cold at night?”

“Not during summer,” Wilbur said. “It’s colder here than where I was, besides.”

Techno took in the shabbiness of it all, the quilt he must have recognized from their home, 

“And where are you from again?”

Wilbur swallowed, fingers rubbing at the hem of the grey sweater he always wore, “Carson City.”

“Where?”

“Nevada,” Techno responded to Tommy, before turning his attention back to Wilbur. “So— are your parents not looking, or—”

Wilbur’s expression turned guarded.

“I don’t want to talk about me anymore,” he said stiffly, “It’s really none of your business.”

“Fine,” Techno said, annoyed at not having all the information, “Be mysterious. See if I care.”

“I think you do care, because you just asked—”

“Well, I don’t!”

“Well,” Tommy sighed, “You two are sure hitting it off well.”

His tone was sarcastic, but before long it transformed into truth. 

Their bickering turned lighthearted after a moment. Once Techno got over his initial scorn, the three of them went walking down the street, and they passed all the things that Tommy knew. Those two miles of warm sand; the doughnut shop (their flavor of the week was creme brulee, and Tommy made Techno go in and purchase three of them); they ate the doughnuts, sticky and running over, at the benches outside of the burger place; the quiet, tree-streets that Tommy could recognize like the back of his hand; the rose bushes, trimmed and fragrant by the school down the street. Wilbur looked up at the dappled sun, flooding through the greenness of summer— he tilted his head, wiped a lick of frosting from the corner of his mouth.

“It’s nice here,” he said, “Quiet.”

“It’s always quiet,” Techno responded.

“Too quiet,” Tommy added, “Do you ever wish there was some noise?” 

Wilbur was thoughtful. 

He said, “I like it like this.” 

Tommy sighed, “You’ve just never lived somewhere this quiet before.” 

Six feet walked towards the end of the road. Wilbur looked contemplative, a little small; behind the reflective glasses, one might have called him lost, if it weren’t for the fact that he was with two people who knew exactly where they were. 

“My home was very loud,” he said, “It was different.”

“Tell me,” Techno said, and Wilbur did. 

Whereas with Tommy, Wilbur always talked about traveling, with Techno he talked about home. Wilbur Soot finally talked about the  _ before _ . 

He said these three details were the most important: it was small, loud, and always smelled like how freezer burn felt to the touch. And once those details were exhausted, the rest of them spilled out, the tumultuous rumble of one who had said far too little for far too long.  _ Nevada license plates  _ and  _ a local library  _ and  _ the librarian’s name was Julia, and she always let me stay after hours  _ and  _ I miss home but not really. _

He continued, “I once snapped my glasses in second grade,” and he said, “I’d never had a bloody nose before,” and he said, “We moved an entire wasp nest, larger than my head,” and “I never thought I’d see the coastline until a few weeks ago.” 

He said some more things, but Tommy didn’t remember them.

Instead, the three of them paused at the end of the street. From there it dissolved into wild, tangling shrubbery. The dirt was dry beneath their feet and led into nowhere; the only thing between them and the sparse treeline was a chain link fence, shorter than Wilbur was tall.

“Sounds like a lot,” Techno said. 

Wilbur hooked his hands through the fence. “You could call it that.”

Silence came over the three of them again. 

“You should come over tonight,” Techno offered.

Wilbur tilted his head. “I don’t think I should.”

There was a wordless exchange between them at that. Tommy frowned, trying to follow the conversation. He always disliked it when people older than him cut him out of their discussions.

But Tommy had known Techno since he was very young, and he knew what he was saying. Could read it clear as day on his face. It was an offer of sorts.

Wilbur, Tommy could read less easily, but he thought that Wilbur’s answer may have been,  _ if you say so. _

* * *

Tommy’s house was a small, whitewashed house with a red shingled roof. It was quite nice. Inside it was just large enough for the three of them, and every so often Enya, though Phil always kicked the cat out whenever she was found inside Tommy’s room. They had a fish tank with a neon-orange goldfish that lived long past its expiration date in the family room, and green-painted cabinets in the kitchen, with scalloped hinges and brass handles that Tommy polished every Sunday. Two paned windows looked out onto the beach, each lined with jars of seaglass that Techno had collected as a kid, sorted by color: turquoise, emerald green, amber, and the rare, half-full jar of red. Phil had a planter of herbs that looked out onto the southward sunlight, leafy and flourishing; it smelled of basil and sage and mint and oregano, green and bristling with flavor. And they had their lemon tree just out front; that was what Wilbur stared the longest at when Tommy brought him out into the late afternoon sunlight.

A hummingbird flitted by the lemons, preened by one of the leaves. Wilbur watched it curiously. 

“Well?” Tommy asked giddily, leaning back, “Do you like it?”

“It’s nice,” Wilbur breathed.

Tommy shrugged, “It’s  _ home,  _ messy as hell— and Techno always eats the snacks that Phil gets for me, and I don’t even want to show you my room, that’s how bad it is, but—”

“It’s nice,” Wilbur repeated, “It’s really, really nice.” 

Something inside Tommy lessened, dampened. He hadn’t realized how anxious he was until then. 

“Glad you like it,” Techno said, when Tommy failed to respond, “I can introduce you to Phil, if you want. He’s our dad.”

Wilbur was twitchy around Phil. Tommy didn’t know why, and Wilbur wouldn’t explain; his mouth shut when he tried, when Tommy cornered him in the mint-green hallway. But he pushed his glasses up on his nose quietly and said  _ yes, sir  _ when Phil asked him a question, and when Techno began to set the table and Phil asked,  _ Wilbur, would you mind helping him?  _ Wilbur fumbled, nearly slipping, and said,  _ of course.  _

Phil looked after Wilbur, scrawny and apprehensive, and then he turned and said, “Tommy, can we talk for a moment?”

Tommy swallowed. Oh, how he hated when Phil was upset with him.

But Phil wasn’t upset; he paused on one side of the kitchen, hands covered in flour. The room simmered with the smell of tomato and garlic and the thick, sharp scent of fresh olive oil, “Where did you meet Wilbur, exactly?” 

“He’s—” Tommy chewed the inside of his lip, “If I tell you, will you promise not to tell anyone?”

Phil’s expression grew guarded and still. “Is he in trouble?”

Tommy didn’t know where Phil had drawn that conclusion from, but he blurted, “I met him in the lighthouse. He lives on the top floor.”

Phil’s eyes widened.

“But he told me not to say,” Tommy began rambling, words churning like butter, “And I already told Techno, and I think he’d be really upset if he knew that I told you, too, so you can’t tell him— really, dad, you can’t.”

“It’s okay,” Phil reassured, “I won’t.”

Tommy’s chest eased. “Good.” 

A moment of silence, charged with uncertainty. Tommy chewed at his cheek and tasted blood. One room over he could hear Techno and Wilbur talking, their voices low, glasses and silverware clinking. In the kitchen, Phil looked very contemplative. A pit made itself known in Tommy’s stomach. He had a horrible feeling that Wilbur would be upset if he knew Tommy had told both Techno and Phil about where he lived, and might not return. 

Tommy kept those fears quiet, hidden below the soft, pillowy conversation at dinner and the smell of fresh basil. Wilbur got along well with Techno—  _ very  _ well. Wilbur even cracked a smile in front of Phil, which made Phil smile, and made an odd emotion stir inside Tommy’s chest. 

“I’m glad that you’ve made friends with Tommy,” Phil said at one point, polite, “I’m glad that it sounds like he’s finally learning math.”

“Hey!” Tommy protested, light-heartedly, and elbowed Phil. He was laughing, though. Techno laughed too. 

But Wilbur only nodded, throat closed up, and kept his gaze on the floor. 

* * *

Tommy was asleep on the sofa by the time night fell. 

It was a sleep brought on by a full stomach, the conversation sprinkling around him, and humid wind wafting in through white-paned windows. His head drooped onto Techno’s shoulder, then his cheek slid down his arm, and irritated, Techno scooted over until Tommy’s head was finally in his lap. 

Because of Tommy’s sleep, he missed a very important conversation— exchanged quietly between a father and a new friend, beneath the summer moon.

“If you wanted,” Phil said quietly, as Wilbur approached the front door to depart, “My home always has a room for you if you need it.”

“Thank you,” Wilbur managed, words sticking in his throat like days-old chewing gum, “But I— I have to go.” 

“So soon?”

The house was cool and lived-in and vibrant. Music, songs Wilbur hadn’t heard since he was a kid, played softly from the radio. He felt nearly sick.

“I’m sorry,” Wilbur said, “But I don’t think I can stay.” 

He couldn’t stay, but he didn’t want to go back to the lighthouse either— to the drafty winds, the salty spray, bracing his arms on the wobbling railings, looking out at the limitless sea, wondering,  _ did I make the right choice?  _

Phil’s expression was sorrowful. 

He pushed something into Wilbur’s hands, then: “If you have to go, at least take another helping on your way home.” 

Wilbur stared at what Phil had given him.

A tupperware, warm with another serving of dinner, was in his hands. Wilbur's heart lurched in his chest. Something wild and intangible rose inside of him. 

“Thank you,” he said, strangled.

Phil’s smile was a little quiet, a little sad. “Take care, alright?”

Wilbur didn’t think he could form words even if he wanted. He only nodded.

“And if you ever do want to stay,” Phil said, “There’s a place for you.”

Wilbur’s fingers gripped the tupperware tighter.

“Thank you,” he repeated again, far too small for everything he had been gifted.

“And Wilbur—”

Wilbur paused, one foot out the doorway, and turned. 

Phil said, “Tommy’s a good kid, isn’t he?”

There was a still, tremulous pause. The sky was violet above them. 

Wilbur nodded.

Then he turned and vanished into the evening air.

**Author's Note:**

> point loma is a real place in cali, though very different than what i wrote it as. it's actually right by la jolla! 
> 
> if you enjoyed, please leave kudos/comments, they really make my day <3


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